


The Vampiric Commandment

by kazural



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Gore, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Past Childhood Abuse, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Guilt, Vampire Allura, Vampire Hunter Keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:26:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazural/pseuds/kazural
Summary: Orphaned as a child and raised by the church, Keith is a rare breed of human born with the ability to see the supernatural creatures that terrorize Altea after dark. A relentless desire for vengeance drives him to the streets each night in the divine pursuit of purging all vampires from existence. His devout beliefs are shattered when a beautiful, silver-haired vampire saves his life, sparking an unholy obsession that threatens to destroy his faith and damn his soul.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I will not be updating this fic at regular intervals. As stated in the tags, this is a very dark story that includes graphic violence, sexual content, and strong religious themes.

_Thou shall not kill_. The sixth commandment. Delivered to humanity after Moses climbed Mount Sinai and God’s word was bestowed upon him. One sentence, etched into a plain, stone tablet. One sin, absolved by confession.

 _Thou shall not kill._ The wooden stake entered the vampire’s heart and its snarling dissipated, leaving the street unnaturally quiet. The red light in its pupils faded. Flat, black emptiness remained.  

 _Thou shall not kill._ Vampires were not creations of God. He did not shape them in His image, nor did He give them a soul. Killing one was not a sin, but an offering.

Keith frowned at his crimson hands and wiped them clean on the vampire’s tan waistcoat. Blood gushed out of the hole between its ribs, the torn skin curling and turning black as the rot set in. Two minutes, and the corpse would be a husk. When the sun came up the next morning, it would burn to ash.

Gas lamps flickered in the cool night air, indistinct dots of yellow light obscured by the thick fog blanketing Altea. Ignorant fools lined the streets, their laughter an enticing draw for the predators circling them. Even as midnight approached the city was alive, its inhabitants unaware of Lucifer’s servants festering in every shadow.

No one else could see them, of course – the demons slithering along the cobblestones and lurking in secluded alleys. Keith was one of the blessed, a child favoured by God, born with the ability to sight abominations. Hunting demons was his divine calling; the only reason for his existence. Father Reeve had beaten those sacred truths into him until he had no choice but to believe it.

A dark satisfaction swelled in his chest as he observed the decaying vampire. With his boot, he rolled the body off the street so that it rested against a wall. To anyone else, a drunkard was sleeping off ten mugs of ale. To Keith, his latest hunt had ended in success.

No vampire deserved to live. Their continuing survival was an insult to God. Only the damned fed off of human blood, only the damned were immortal.

Sheathing the stake inside his coat’s hidden, inner pocket, Keith continued the hunt. He had hours until sunrise, when the demons would have to disappear or risk being incinerated. There was plenty of time to send a few more back to Hell, where they belonged.

Carriages rattled through the streets and drink-addled gentleman with prostitutes clinging to their arms floundered around every corner. In the factory district, the homeless sat and begged. They were barely piles of rags and bones, waiting for death or wishing for it. No one asked questions when they died. Keith supposed that was why vampires favoured them.

Hunting here never disappointed, and it wasn’t long before he heard a muted struggle. Across the street, he witnessed a poor man being dragged into an alley as dark as pitch. Grinning, he reached into his pocket, rubbed the beads of his rosary, recited a quick prayer, and started running.

His stake was in his hand before he reached the narrow passage. He observed the scene unfolding in front of him, planning his approach and letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The vampire hadn’t heard him yet.

With a black top hat and a matching coat and trousers, the vampire was smartly dressed. Its face was buried in the thin man’s neck, its hands digging into his arms and keeping him in place. When Keith looked closely, he could see the blood flowing down the front of the victim’s dirty, white shirt, glistening and spreading like a wine stain.

Keith crept up behind the vampire, each footfall silent, each breath controlled. The man had already gone limp from losing so much blood, and the vampire only drank more. With a subdued whisper of his coat, Keith lunged, his stake aimed at the creature’s lifeless heart.

Right before the stake hit its mark, the vampire shifted, sensing him at the last second. It let out a bloodcurdling shriek as the stake pierced its shoulder. Keith cursed as it ripped away from him, taking the stake with it. His neck leaking a river of blood, its victim slumped to the ground, collapsing in a pool of red.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the top hat tumble to the ground as the vampire wrenched the stake from its flesh, snarling in pain and crushing the wood to splinters. Long, silver hair escaped from the hat’s confines, billowing like a cloud and gleaming like ichor as a breeze whistled through the tight alley and the clouds darkening the sky parted.

When the vampire faced him, he almost fell to his knees in reverence. She was exquisite and ethereal, her brown skin silk-smooth, her blue irises reflecting the moon’s light as if they contained the facets of a sapphire. Her gaze pierced his dark eyes, holding his body and soul captive.

She was his beautiful salvation, an angel sent to lead him out of his torment. He would willingly carve his own heart from his chest and offer it to her with tainted palms if she so wished.

Her red pupils glowed as she hissed. Then he noticed the blood obscuring the bottom half of her face like a red mask, dripping thickly from her chin. She curled her lip and growled at him, her teeth stained crimson, her fangs razor-sharp.

Fingers lengthening into hard, black claws, she sprang at him. He was still too enthralled, too sluggish, to dodge her attack. The back of his head hit the wall with a thud, and he didn’t have a chance to resist as she flipped his body around, slamming his face into the rough stone.

Fear set his heart racing as she clawed through his coat, his vest, and his shirt to the bare skin of his shoulder, leaving five neat slices behind. The agony shocked him from his stupor. Too late, he fought back, battering his fists against any part of her body he could reach, but her inhuman strength prevailed against his own.

Using her torso she trapped him against the wall, immobilizing his flailing limbs. She tasted him, her tongue tracing his naked shoulder, travelling along the stinging cuts she had engraved there. The foreign sensation made him shudder, arousal and revulsion thundering through him and threatening to tear him apart.

She impaled him with her long fangs, almost to the bone, making him cry out. Her lips brushed against his shoulder, warm and soft; her tongue lapped at the blood spurting from the twin wounds.  The pain was soon eclipsed by a haze of ecstasy, and he forgot that he was supposed to be disgusted - that enjoying this was a mortal sin.

As she drank from him, she moaned - light, breathless sounds that sent vibrations through his skin and raised the hair on his neck. He was weak and yielding as she took from him all that she desired. One, long drag and his eyes rolled back into his head.

A clawed hand tangled in his black hair, moving the thick strands away from his pale neck. Her fangs left his shoulder to latch onto his throat. He let her bite down again. He wanted her to.

A vampire disguised as an angel, come to corrupt him before carrying him to his death. His angel. He didn’t mind. The suffering would be over. In her arms, he would take his last breath.

His whole being was clouded with overwhelming lust; his body was reacting in an uncontrollable way. Mindlessly, he rutted against the wall in front of him, grinding his pelvis against the stone, searching for a way to relieve the building pressure. Unashamed whines left his mouth, even when he started to feel like he was floating.

In the space between sleep and waking, consciousness and unconsciousness, life and death, Father Reeve’s riding crop beat against his neck. Not her fangs causing the distant needles of pain, but the Father’s heavy lashes. Raining blows on his back, his thighs, his stomach.

Cursed child blessed with a gift he knows not how to use. Revered and reviled. Repent and your sins will be forgiven. Repent and you will be born anew as a servant of the Lord.

Slowly, his hand inched towards the second wooden stake concealed in his trouser pocket. A vampire does not deserve life. The crop cracked against his shoulder blades. Abominations, all of them. You were born to annihilate their plague.

He stabbed the stake into her side, the wound deep and damaging. Anguish had him clinging to the wall to stay standing as she careened backwards and her fangs tore from his neck. Without her smothering presence, he could feel the blood coating his right side and sticking his clothing to his skin. It was with great effort that he faced her, stake lifted in aggression.

His blood covered her lips and drenched strands of her lustrous hair. The sight made him ache. She clutched the gash in her side, hissing and backing away like a cornered animal – but not from him.

A new pair of red orbs appeared in the darkness, just as Keith’s vision went blurry. Too much blood. She had taken too much.

He saw as she was slammed into the ground by her new, unharmed foe. Words, he might have heard words, but the alley was spinning. Different fangs punctured his neck. He dropped his stake, the strength in his fingers failing.

There was only pain. Only unending agony. He confessed his sins. He prayed to God and to all of the saints to be saved, whether in life or in death. 

Wet, ripping sounds filled his right ear and his vision snapped into place. Black claws pierced through the new vampire’s neck from behind, the honed points penetrating the stone wall and leaving spidery cracks. With a twitch of her wrist, she sheared the vampire’s head from its shoulders, cutting through muscle and bone with ease.

Warm blood spurted into the air from its severed neck. It was his blood, he realized, as red splattered his face. The head rolled off his shoulder and hit the ground with a revolting smack. Nothing seemed real anymore.

He was floating again as she removed her claws from the wall and reached into the vampire’s back, pulling out its heart with a triumphant snarl. She bit into the organ, rending it in two with her fangs and casting both pieces aside.

His legs gave out. All he could see was black. Then a flash of her in the moonlight, standing tall above him like an angel of death, claws retracted, radiant eyes clear, a furrow between her groomed brows.

He crawled, and when he couldn’t crawl any longer, he dragged himself across the cobblestone, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. His arms spasmed and stopped working. A quiet “No” reached his ears, spoken with a lilting, unfamiliar accent. Then nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Keith woke with a start, sitting straight up and almost retching into his lap. He choked down bile, staring at the familiar wooden panels that made up the walls of his room at St. Paul Cathedral. A crucifix hung at the end of the bed, the only decoration in the entirety of the cramped space. As he remembered, the sight of it burned him with shame.

Hair like burnished silver. Eyes like sunlight glinting off the roiling ocean. His blood flowing like it belonged to her.

“I see you’ve finally decided to grace the world with your consciousness,” Shiro said, startling Keith. Seated on a chair at the side of Keith’s bed, Shiro set down the book he had been reading and leaned forward, scrutinizing Keith’s pupils.

“It didn’t turn me,” Keith whispered, the effort hurting his parched throat. He could taste blood on his tongue, his dry lips cracking as he spoke. Despite Keith’s assurance, Shiro continued his careful observation until he was certain there was no red glow present.

Underneath Shiro’s black robes of priesthood, Keith knew there was a stake waiting to be used. If he had so much as thought he had found what he was searching for, that stake would be in his hand and aiming for Keith’s heart.

Keith didn’t know who would have won the ensuing battle. Shiro stood as one of the tallest men Keith had ever seen, and his formidable build was noticeable even underneath his formless robes. Taken into Father Reeve’s care almost from birth, Shiro had been trained to become a monolith for the Lord - a pillar that stood up to those undeserving of His mercy. The shock of white hair falling against his forehead and the scar crossing the bridge of his nose were evidence of the Father’s rigorous expectations.

But Keith, he had been _born_ to hunt. He surpassed almost every human limitation, only lacking in brute strength. His sight and his swiftness were those of a hawk diving for its prey. His bones mended quick, and his wounds even quicker. All of those divine blessings he had learned to harness, to exploit, until he could purge the world of the demons that had stolen everything from him.

In a fight, he would claw and scrape his way to survival. He had before, more times than he would like to recall. Against Shiro, though, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to shed his friend’s blood.  

“It didn’t turn you and it didn’t kill you,” Shiro said, reflecting on the absurdity. “In all likelihood, it deposited you on the front steps of the Cathedral soaked in blood, your neck defiled with bite marks. If there are any reasons for its nonsensical behaviour, I have no guesses as to what they are.”

“I was in the factory district,” Keith said. “That’s where I discovered it feeding on a man. I attacked it, but it was too strong. I can’t remember the rest.”

Lies. The crucifix was judging him, a silent presence making the guilt in his stomach fester.

“Father Reeve wanted to lock you in the crypt,” Shiro said. “He’s wary of you. What vampire doesn’t take the life of its victim?”

“I don’t know,” Keith whispered, but the truth lingered in his mind. A vampire with beauty beyond anything the world could offer. Even caked in blood, she was a creature without equal. And she had answered him when he had prayed for salvation. Injured by his stake and another vampire’s claws, she had still saved him.

He did not understand why. But he would find out. “Tonight, I will hunt again.”

Shiro scowled. “The morphine hasn’t left your blood. Your wounds have not yet healed. Father Reeve has ordered that you are _not_ to leave the grounds for any reason.”

“Then I will see Father Reeve first,” Keith said, the statement coming out far more confident than he felt about the prospect. In one moment, Shiro’s expression changed from stern disapproval to uneasy concern.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said, his gaze travelling to the crucifix witnessing every word. “Not until the bite marks have disappeared.”

“I’ll take whatever punishment he’ll give me, and then I’ll hunt.” Bile was rising in his throat again as he thought of what may await him. He had been bitten. He had failed in his duty.

“This time it will be different,” Shiro said, a warning Keith should have known to heed. But she was too stark in his mind for him to think of anything else. When he closed his eyes, she was there waiting for him, beckoning him with dripping claws. To find her, he would suffer through one thousand of the Father’s lashes. To find her, he would count each one until his voice faltered and his tongue turned to lead in his mouth.

When Keith killed her, he would drag her corpse to the Father and he would be forgiven for allowing himself to be enthralled by her touch. For allowing her fangs to breach his skin. For exulting in the sin she had brought upon him.

A monster was a monster, no matter the disguise it wore. Lucifer was the most beautiful of the angels, after all. Her beauty was a tool - a method to lure unwitting fools to her deathly embrace. He had been one of those fools. It wouldn’t happen a second time.

“I’ll pray for you,” Shiro said, unable to hide his grimace before exiting the room.

Keith’s neck and shoulder still ached, but he was able to dress and pull his shirt over the bandages without any serious impediments. The sun was beginning to set, so if he visited Father Reeve now, he would have time to recover and start his hunt just as the last of the daylight disappeared from the sky.

At this time of the day, Father Reeve would have just finished listening to confessions. It was a good time to catch him, after the mighty and lowly alike had divulged their secrets and made offerings to God in the form of all the coin they could spare.

Keith found Father Reeve kneeling before the altar, muttering prayers and clutching his rosary tight in his joined hands. The setting sun fell through the stained-glass windows and onto the gilded statues of saints and veined marble tiles, turning the chamber into a golden sanctuary. Everywhere he looked priceless metals gleamed, a reminder of God’s favour. Wealth had been given to Father Reeve for his unrivalled devotion to the Lord, the priest always said. The Lord took care of those who believed in Him.

After genuflecting, Keith sat on one of the pews and said his own silent prayers while he waited for the Father to finish. Though he would attend confession tomorrow, he asked the Lord for forgiveness. Dark shame clouded his head as he recalled how his body had reacted to the sharp pierce of her fangs, the slick, warm drag of her tongue against his shoulder.

In God’s presence, he shouldn’t have even thought of such a sin, but he couldn’t extract the lingering feel of her from his skin. He couldn’t stop himself from desiring _more_. When the Father’s fingers tapped against the wood of the pew’s backrest, he jolted.

“Keith, you have come,” Father Reeve said. His smooth voice echoed ominously through the empty chamber.

“Yes, Father.” Keith couldn’t disguise how his words quaked. An imposing figure, the Father’s pale face had just started to show signs of aging. Whenever he smiled, wrinkles appeared at the corners of his hazel eyes.

Today, he was clean-shaven, his jaw sharp and his cheeks gaunt. His thinning, brown hair was slicked back in the fashionable style. Every part of him was polished, impeccable. He was in a good mood it seemed, which would make what was coming that much worse.

“Tell me about your night.” He put on a show of being interested, but his flat eyes betrayed his displeasure. Doing his best not to cower, Keith recounted the previous lies that he had told Shiro.

In the future, he would confess, but not now, not tomorrow, not when Father Reeve’s jaw was twitching and twitching. When he was finished, the Father nodded his head pensively, even with understanding, then raised his eyes to the heavens for a long moment.

Foolishly, Keith thought he was safe. Foolishly, he began to hope. It was not so.

“Disgusting,” the Father spat. One moment, his strong hand was at his side, the next it was fisted in Keith’s hair and dragging him out of the pew.

Keith yelped as he crashed to the floor, but the Father kept stalking forward up the aisle, his grip unyielding. Crawling, then stumbling, Keith had no choice but to follow, the fingers in his hair coming close to ripping strands from his head.

“I’m sorry!” Keith cried, his fear exploding as he scrabbled at the Father’s arms, trying to loosen his grip. “It will never happen again.” His boots slipped out and he fell to the ground. The Father only yanked his hair harder, forcing him back onto his feet.

“Why should I believe the words of someone who has failed me?” Father Reeve blustered. “Of someone who has failed the Lord? I trusted you, and now you are tainted.”

Sobs were all Keith could respond with. His scalp screamed with pain, and still he stumbled on. Father Reeve was right. He was always right.

Past the pulpit and into one of the back rooms, the Father never once looked over his shoulder at Keith. Finally, he stopped and reached over to one of the tables. On his knees, Keith couldn’t see what the Father was searching for, but his free hand came back clutching a full jug sloshing with holy water.

“You must be cleansed, Keith. If you are truly tainted, you will be destroyed.” Fury overcame his expression as he grabbed Keith’s jaw and forced his mouth open, tilting his head up. Before Keith could understand what was happening, the Father tipped the jug and water gushed into his face.

The holy water burned as it went up his nostrils, it burned as it entered his lungs, it burned as he tried to swallow what he could and failed, the rest rising up in his throat. He was drowning and writhing, and the water never stopped pouring. He flailed against the Father’s iron grip, but he was too weak to free himself. Each time he vomited the excess water up, the relentless stream forced it back down.

“Abhorrent!” Keith could barely hear, but the Father was yelling. “Unholy! Abomination! Die, beast!”

Keith’s pleas for the Father to stop were gurgles. He couldn’t breathe and his lungs were going to burst. All he could do was try to find some purchase on the Father’s robes with his grasping fingers.  

The jug emptied and the water stopped flowing, and Keith threw up onto the front of his shirt before slumping onto his side and going into a coughing fit trying to clear his lungs. His eyesight was blurry when he attempted to crack his lids open, his limbs like jelly when he tried to move.  

“It seems you are still among the blessed,” Father Reeve stated, no emotions colouring his words. “Next time, do better.”

Vigorously, Keith nodded, his eyes still clenched tight. Tension coiled in his chest as he listened to the sound of the Father’s footsteps leading him farther and farther away.

The door creaked. “Oh,” Father Reeve said, “and clean this mess.” Then he was gone and Keith was free to bawl. As tears cascaded down his already-wet cheeks, he made pitiful, simpering noises that he never knew he was capable of. 

Lying in a puddle of water and his own sick, his clothes were soaked through, from his undershirt to the ankles of his trousers. His long hair was plastered to his face, rivulets dripping from the ends and mingling with his tears.

Shiro found him like that, shivering and curled up with his knees to his chest, hacking out sobs from his raw throat. He didn’t remind Keith that he had warned him. He only put a hand on Keith’s shoulder and prompted him to sit up.

“What has he done this time?” Shiro asked, crouching down so that his face was level with Keith’s.

“Holy water,” Keith croaked, and that was enough for Shiro to understand.

“Here.” Offering a dry sheet to Keith, Shiro sighed and looked around at the spreading puddle of water. “Whatever he says, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Next time I’ll do better,” Keith rasped, taking the sheet and wiping his face. Shudders still wracked his body, and he strained every muscle trying to stop them. A stabbing pain radiated inside his lungs each time he breathed in, but that wasn’t going to get in the way of his hunt.

He would find her. He would kill her. Father Reeve would forgive him.

“Don’t go out tonight,” Shiro ordered. Keith ignored him and pulled himself up to his feet. Bent over, he clasped his knees with his hands and coughed again, whimpering at how his throat hurt.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Keith finally snapped back. “If I don’t return in the morning, then don’t bother looking for my corpse.”

“Then do what you will.” Shiro said. It was impossible to miss his irritated tone, but Keith couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“I’ll clean up,” Shiro said, gesturing to the water. As he surveyed Keith’s sorry state, a haunted look passed over his face. Keith knew he was remembering his past trials, and immediately felt remorseful for spurning his advice.  

“Thank you.” Sopping wet and trailing water, Keith wrapped the sheet around his hunched shoulders and made his way back to his room to change for the second time that day, harbouring his shame with every step.


	3. Chapter 3

“Where is the silver-haired vampire?” Keith growled, stabbing his bloodied stake down and eliciting another cry from the vampire trapped beneath him. “Where can I find her?”

The vampire whimpered like a wounded animal and tried to lunge forward, fangs bared. Keith stabbed again, this time closer to the heart. Bloodlust still teemed in the vampire’s red pupils, and Keith would keep stabbing until pain overwhelmed the hunger. In the thrall of bloodlust, a vampire would know nothing except the need to devour.  

It tried to claw at him, its flopping hands nothing but an annoyance. The first thing Keith had done when he found the vampire was to slice through the tendons of its wrists. Without those long, dark claws, as hard as diamond and as black as if they had been dipped in tar, the vampire could do nothing.

“Where is she?” Keith yelled, steering clear of the snapping fangs attempting to reach his neck, or any flesh that he would be foolish enough to expose. He dug his knee deeper into the vampire’s stomach for balance, then staked it as close to the heart as he dared without killing it.

Keening as Keith twisted the stake, its pupils started to fade from a bright red to a muted burgundy. The sun was peeking over the horizon, and as soon as it rose, Keith would be left with worthless ash. Using his stake to draw a blistering line across the vampire’s cheek, Keith asked again, “Where is she?”

Sanity banished the vampire’s feral expression, the pain finally forcing it to overcome its need for blood. “We do not speak of her,” it said, looking frantically about the dark alley, terrified that someone – or something – might be listening to it betray their secrets.

“Why not?” The sun was creeping higher, and Keith was almost out of time. Another drag of his stake had the vampire rushing to get its next words out.

“It’s dangerous to even mention her name.” Tears leaked onto its cheeks, mingling with the blood. “This time, they’re going to make sure they kill her.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Keith said. “For the last time, where is she?”

“I don’t kn-.” The vampire’s face froze in a silent scream as Keith’s stake met its heart. Useless. He dragged the body to the sidewalk, where the sun would appear any minute to sear the corpse into dust.

Another night, another dead end. He had lost count of the vampires he had killed in his pursuit of the silver-haired vampire. _His_ vampire. The more nights that passed, the more he dwelled on the sharp pierce of her blue eyes, the drag of her hot tongue, the bite that had thrust him into this pathetic existence.

There was only her. In his thoughts. In his dreams. In the marrow of his very bones.

If he never saw see her again...

Wiping the stake clean on his dark overcoat, he fought to keep from dropping it, the tremors in his hands becoming uncontrollable. Yesterday, they had begun, just as he had returned from another fruitless hunt. He shook like an addict being deprived of his next high.

Back at St. Paul, studying his pallid reflection in his mirror, the rising sun casting him in a harsh and unforgiving light, he looked like one - his face almost skeletal, his cheekbones too sharp, his cheeks too gaunt, and his pale skin almost translucent. Black circles looked like stark bruises beneath his blood-shot eyes.

He didn’t sleep. He barely ate. He hunted.

And he failed.

Night after night, he failed. And Father Reeve knew, and Father Reeve gave him the knotted rope, and Father Reeve watched as he beat it against his own bare back, drawing blood and leaving fresh cuts over the old scars. Self-flagellation to appease the Lord, who he was unable to appease otherwise, now that he had been tainted.

Shiro bandaged his back every time, cleaning the deep wounds and wrapping fresh cloth around his broken skin, silent and judging. _Give up_ , Keith read in his clenched jaw, his disapproving stare. _Give up, confess, and make peace with the Father, as I once did._

Sitting in his wooden chair, studying a map of Altea at his desk for the hundredth time, he realized that he would rather die. He needed one glimpse more. To see that she was real. To see that the cruel world that had whittled him down with a carving knife was capable of making something of such beauty.

He sat as the sun rose in the sky and dipped below the horizon, going over the map again and again, repeating the same crazed mutterings he had for the past two weeks. The Factory District would be the most logical option. He had found her there before, but he had searched every nightclub, every street, every corner, every alley, and still she remained elusive.

He dragged his fingers down his face, wracking his mind for a new idea, a new _anything_. Without being conscious of it, he slipped his hand beneath the linen of his white shirt to linger on the twin indents in his neck. When he pressed on them, a shot of pleasure spiked through his body and he moaned, taken unaware.

He was back in the alley, with warm lips on his neck and fangs in his skin. And he saw her as he always saw her – mouth full with a vampire’s heart, her teeth parting the flesh like butter. Beautiful as crimson washed down her chin and stained her silver hair until it was dripping.

“Mr. Kogane, I hope I’m not interrupting.” A soft lilt, spoken in an accent he had only heard once. He leapt from his desk and reached underneath his pillow, grasping for anything to be used as a weapon but only finding his rosary.

“I hear you’ve been searching for me,” she said, unperturbed by his violent reaction. He pivoted, and was shocked into stillness at the very sight of her.

She no longer disguised herself in men’s clothing. The rich, purple dress of a noblewoman adorned her, the waist cinched tight and the skirt full, layers of fabric draped and pinned. White gloves hid her black nails, and a ruby brooch glittered on her collar.

Her glistening hair was gathered into an elaborate style, strands twisted about her head and a selected few framing her elegant face. She breathed life into him with her very presence, dissipating his weariness and injecting strength into his brittle bones. His salvation, come for him.

Pointed fangs dug into her bottom lip, noticeable to no one but a seasoned hunter. The glow of her pupils was muted, but still there - the devil’s reminder that she was not of this world, that nature had not intended her existence. She was a monster.

Father Reeve could not be wrong. The lashes, the rope, the holy water – they were lessons, and he would be a fool to forget the truths that pain had branded him with. Vampires were evil. The Lord abhorred and desired the destruction of all that was evil, and he was born to do the Lord’s bidding.

“Why have you been searching for me, Mr. Kogane?” The very sound of her voice made the bite marks on his neck and shoulder tingle. He fought to keep his divine calling in the forefront of his mind, remembering the burn of the holy water in his lungs and the sour taste of bile that had never left him since. The aftertaste still lingered on his tongue.

“I find you peculiar, vampire.” Speaking to her for the first time sent a sinful thrill thrumming through him.

She quirked a groomed eyebrow. “How so?”

“Why save a hunter?” he asked, passing his rosary through his fingers. “I wanted to kill you.”

“The hawk does not pity the mouse,” she said. His eyes locked on the barest glimpse of her fangs, hidden behind her lips. Imagining the sweet puncture as his flesh parted for her made his body grow hot, as it had before.

“Then you should have drained me of every drop of blood.” If she was the hawk, he was the mouse. He did not appreciate the comparison.

“I am not a hawk.”

“What are you, then?” He swept a hand towards the floor. “Here you are, walking on hallowed ground without the least discomfort. The vampire I staked tonight, it was afraid of _you_. Of _them_.”

Her gaze darkened and she parted her lips, showing the razor edges of her fangs. “I am only here to warn you, Mr. Kogane. Stop asking questions about me. Go about your normal business. Heed my words, or you will start to attract the wrong type of attention.”

“And if I don’t listen to the ravings of a vampire?”

“I saved your life once. I will not be bothered a second time.” Blue eyes of ice raked him from head to toe, freezing him in place. He could barely remember to breathe.

“You do not know, do you?” she said, tilting her head to the side. Something old lurked in her then, as cryptic and indecipherable as her question.

“Of what do you refer to?” His palms were sweaty as he rolled the rosary beads between his fingers.

“Truths better left buried, I should think.”

“I grow tired of your riddles,” he said. “Let me rest in peace.” He held the rosary out in front of himself and muttered the Lord’s prayer.

Amused, she faced the open window, turning her back to him. “Farewell, Mr. Ko-.”

She choked as he threw the rosary over her head and pulled tight, twisting so that the beads dug into the skin of her neck. Finally, he would have his redemption. Father Reeve would again look at him with pride instead of revulsion.

He twisted the rosary again, forcing it tighter, and her skin burned under the contact of the blessed rosary. She couldn’t scream, and even as her hands scrabbled to pull the rosary free they came away scorched, the white of her gloves eaten through.

Father Reeve would say it was only what she, as a vampire, deserved. He would remind Keith that a vampire killed his parents – shredded them to pieces and left their bodies to rot in their little hovel in the Factory District. That Keith was fortunate to be alive, and the Lord had made it so. The rest of his life was meant to be given in service, a sacrifice for something greater.

But her hair was burning, too. Silken, silver tendrils blackening under the touch of the rosary. And he couldn’t destroy something so beautiful, so unlike everything Father Reeve’s whip had taught him.

She had attacked that man in the Factory District. She would have killed him had Keith not intervened, and she had tried to kill Keith too. Claw marks still scarred his shoulder, and her bite marks still tainted his neck. Because of her, Father Reeve had shown Keith how he tolerated displeasure by trying to drown him in holy water.

He tugged and broke the rosary. Beads clattered across the wooden floor, rolling as she doubled over and clutched her neck, gasping for breaths she shouldn’t have had to take. He stumbled backwards, until his knees hit the edge of his bed.

Then she turned on him, eyes red with anger, glowing in the dim light of his room. She bared her fangs and growled, nails elongating into black claws. Fear made his heart pound against his ribcage, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from her as she stalked towards him.

Reaching blindly, he found one his wooden bedposts and snapped the top half off, leaving him with a makeshift stake. But instead of holding it out in front of him, to face her, he turned it on himself. He dragged the jagged point down his neck, a line of blood gushing from the cut.

She stopped advancing. He dropped the stake. “Foolish hunter,” she said, gaze riveted to the blood his neck leaked. “There is a reason the mouse runs from the hawk.”

“But you are not a hawk.” He kicked the stake past her, opening his palms to her to show her that he was hiding nothing.

“Oh,” she said, smiling, “but I can be.”

She lunged. Her fangs pierced his neck and he cried out in agony. Her claws ripped through his shirt, the points digging into his chest, over his heart. Like in the alley, the initial shock faded into acceptance, which faded into bliss.

Her tongue lapped at his neck as she drank from him. He went limp, slumping back onto his bed, and she followed, leaning over him and devouring all that she wanted.  

His eyes rolled back in his head as her fangs sunk deeper. Better, it was better to die this way, before Father Reeve discovered his many sins. After he confessed, he would be locked in the crypt to desiccate.

The life was leaving him. A fog descended, his mind lost to the mist. All he could feel was her - all he needed to feel was her.

But she pulled back. His fluttering eyes cleared and he stared as she wiped her chin and licked her stained lips clean. And it wasn’t right, because he was still breathing.

“I may still need you, Mr. Kogane.” She dragged her claws from his chest to his cheek, leaving long scratches. “And if they come for you before then, tell them that _Allura_ found you first, and that she is done hiding.”

He didn’t have the strength to nod. His eyes were flickering shut, but he had to keep looking, because this could be the last time, the last moment he would ever consume her radiance. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

What awaited him after? A life of the rope, the crop, and the chain. A consuming guilt that would never leave him, a memory that would lift his tainted soul but stay just that as he cowered in front of Father Reeve and begged for mercy after every mistake.

“Take...” His voice was so hoarse he could barely speak. “Take me...away.”

He managed to turn over onto his stomach and pull his shirt up just enough, so that she could see the marks, both old and new. The fresh ones still bled through the bandages, the old ones formed a lattice on his back, the scar tissue tough, his skin the texture of leather.

She gasped. His tears fell free and wet the pillow below his face. At any time he could have left the cathedral, but he didn’t, and he wouldn’t, because Father Reeve owned all that he was - body, soul, thoughts. But she had broken Father Reeve’s spell, and if she didn’t take him with her now, it would ensnare him again.

A delicate hand lifted up his shirt further, and he cringed in shame, knowing the ruin of his back that she now saw. “I’ll do...anything,” he whispered. “Just help me leave.”

“The hawk does not help the mouse,” she said. “The hawk plucks it from the field and eats it whole.”

“You are not a hawk,” he said. Her fingers stroked his back, gentle against his seeping wounds.

Then, slowly, she ran her fingers through his hair, offering comfort that he had never been given before. “No,” she affirmed, “I am not a hawk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and it's almost been a year since I updated this. Will I finish it? Who knows. Will I try to? Of course.


End file.
